


Broken Souls in Bloom

by Najana530



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 1920s rural America, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Angst, Death, F/M, Historical, M/M, Slow Burn, Spanish flu, World War I
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:34:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23321770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Najana530/pseuds/Najana530
Summary: It's 1925 in rural America, and Derek Hale is a bitter recluse with a drinking problem. Content to live alone on his sprawling, neglected farm, far away from everyone, he spends his days haunted by a tragedy from his past. However, an unexpected encounter suddenly has his world flipped upside down. Reluctantly, he takes on Stiles Stilinski as a farm hand after the mysterious young stranger stubbornly works his way into Derek's employ. The two men form a precarious friendship, but as secrets and past hurts inevitably come to light, their new life together is threatened by forces outside their control.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Original Female Character(s), Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	1. Chapter 1

Derek Hale wavered on his front porch, one calloused hand almost losing its grip on the glass bottle at his side. It was a bottle of whiskey, now almost gone, and it glinted in the dying light of the evening. Derek brought his other hand up to steady himself against the wooden railing in front of him; he peered down at it blearily, vaguely registering its current condition: weather worn and neglected. _It needs to be replaced this summer_ , he managed to think to himself, but he’s been thinking that for years and never has bothered to do a damn thing about it. He took another swig from the bottle and stumbled backwards into a rickety old chair by the door. A sadness filled him, emanating from his bones and seeping into every part of his being. It was familiar like an old enemy, and the booze did very little to hinder its presence.

He rubbed the palm of his hand over his rough beard and pressed the pads of his fingers over his closed eyes, weary to the bone. After a long moment, he took a deep breath and looked once again out over his sprawling farm, the setting sun quickly engulfing the land in thick shadow. There’s no sound out here, other than the drone of cicadas and the soft panting of his old dog Charlie. Charlie looked up at Derek with milky, ancient eyes, appraising the man in the same way he does every evening. Derek wondered if Charlie is judging him as he polishes off the last of the whiskey. Lord knows there’s no one else around to do it, besides himself that is. Derek is good enough at passing judgement on his own actions, not that it helps him change his ways much.

He knew he should go to bed, sleep off the drink, but he can’t. Derek can never sleep these days. Instead, he spends the silent night hours on the front porch or haphazardly pacing the overgrown pastures until the alcohol has worn off enough for him to collapse in exhaustion. There’s been a time or two when he’s woken up out there in the wee hours of the gray morning, wet from the dewy grass, his head pounding like it’s about to split in two. This evening, he has enough sense to stay on his porch, even though it’s painful. Too many memories skittering around the house and veranda. There used to be so much life here, but all that’s left now are ghosts, and they haunt Derek ceaselessly. That’s why he ends up down in the pastures, he reasons, it’s the only way he can escape for a little while.

Ten years ago this place had looked so different. It had been a well-kept home on a burgeoning farm. There was a small collection of cattle and chickens roaming freely. Carefully tended flowers lined the front of the modest house, and spacious vegetable gardens flourished in the back. There were lace curtains in the windows, and you could always hear the sound of laughter on the breeze. It was a happy home, a home full of the hopes and dreams of a young couple just starting to become a family. As Derek sits alone now, he dares to touch the memories that he normally keeps locked away to protect himself. He remembers bare feet on polished hard-wood, the hem of a white dress brushing over a smooth leg. God, his wife had been so beautiful. He remembers the feel of the fabric over her heavily-pregnant belly, his open palm feeling the life there. He remembers her laugh--how she was constantly laughing and happy! The memory of it now makes the corner of his mouth turn up in a small smile, but his gaze is mirthless and hollow. There was no more laughter now, no happiness. She and the child were gone.

The farm had died a long time ago, and now Derek only did the bare minimum to keep up with the residence and property. The small house was in sore need of upkeep, and the pastures were overgrown and sown with weeds; there were only a few cattle left and one horse, and they roamed where they pleased. The vegetable gardens and flower beds, with their wooden plots and supports, were long gone, their remains like skeletons half-buried in the dirt. Only sun-bleached remnants gave any indication that life once thrived there. There were no neighbors anywhere near enough to be affected by Derek’s negligence, and those that had come by to inquire about his well being had learned long ago their help was not wanted. Derek didn’t want their pity, and now he hardly ever had any visitors at all. It was just him, Charlie, ghosts, and bottles of whiskey, and he liked it that way.

But there was no way he could know that all of that would change one hot summer afternoon in 1925. 

* * *

While Derek may not have been the best at taking care of his home or himself, he never neglected his animals. It was the only measure of purpose he felt to care for them to the best of his abilities, and he was damn good at it. During this particularly sweltering afternoon, Derek was reshoeing his horse in the shade of the large red maple that grew parallel to the long dusty road that led up to his house. The well was out by this tree, and Derek had drawn some fresh water to keep the horse appeased during his work. So quiet was his surroundings, except for the steady grating of the farrier’s rasp on the horse’s hoof, that Derek nearly thought he had imagined his name on the wind. He wasn’t used to hearing someone else’s voice and was inclined to think he had been imagining things. But as he let the horse’s hoof free and straightened up, beads of sweat rolling down the small of his back, he heard his name once more,

“Mr. Hale?” The voice was clearer this time. It was timid and unsure, but very real indeed. Derek spun on his heel, his expression dark and untrusting. The horse whinnied and shook its powerful head at the disturbance, stomping one hoof into the dry dirt. Outside the protective shade of the tree stood a lean figure, washed out by the glare of the sun but by all accounts still a perfect stranger. Derek took several steps forward, the rasp still clutched firmly in his grip. The stranger took a small step back, seeing that Derek’s approach was almost predatory. It was clear Derek didn’t like people on his land.

“Mr. Hale…?” The man started again, but Derek was quick to cut him off,

“Who are you? What do you want?” He tried to search his mind for any recollection of this intruder. _How does he know who I am_? He thought warily and stepped into the blazing sunlight. Derek looked the man up and down with a furrowed brow and found that the person who stood before him really wasn’t much more than a boy. He was almost as tall as Derek, but leaner; his clothes were disheveled and patched but otherwise neat. There was a sheen of sweat on the stranger’s tanned forehead and dust from the road clung to him; the man’s hair was dark brown, like his eyes, and his cheeks were ruddy from too much sun. Altogether, Derek could tell right away the stranger posed no threat, but he’d be damned if he gave the boy the impression he wanted him to stay.

“Who are you?” Derek barked again, his voice pitched lower now, a warning. The young man seemed to be regretting the encounter and Derek could see his resolve wavering.

“My name is James, sir.” The boy’s eyes darted away for a moment, calculating, “James Miller.” Derek knew in an instant that was a lie, but he kept his mouth shut on his suspicions,

“What do you want?” He opted for instead, still irked but also intrigued. “And why are you here?” The man shifted from one foot to another and readjusted the worn duffle bag on his shoulder,

“I was looking for work in town…..” The boy licked his lips nervously, “but there’s no work to be found. A Mr. Talbot directed me to you, said you might need some help out here….” His words tapered off as Derek’s expression darkened even further. _Damn that David Talbot_ , Derek thought bitterly, _Always getting into my business_.

“Well, I don’t need any help here.” Derek snapped, “Now leave.” The kid looked only momentarily defeated,

“But I can be useful--” He held his hands up imploringly as Derek shook his head and began to walk away, “--Please! Sir, I know it’s a lot to ask, but I just need to make a bit of money, and I’ll leave!” Derek glared sideways at the young man as he struggled to keep up with Derek’s angry gait,

“No.” He said firmly, but the boy was stubborn to say the least,

“I have experience as a farm hand--” he pleaded, and Derek whirled on him, scrutinizing him carefully. He knew this to be another lie. He could see the boy’s hands were smooth, roughened up by travel on the road, but there wasn’t even a single callous to be found.

“You don’t look like you’ve done a single day of manual labor in your life.” Derek spat, and the young man looked sheepish,

“Well, no, sir…. But I can do other things!” He offered enthusiastically, and Derek grimaced at the level of eagerness. Derek could see the boy looking around the property quickly, assessing the fields and the house, “I can help keep up the home.” He finally offered, somewhat indecisive as Derek imagined he had never done anything like that either. Derek turned to continue back to the house and the boy followed after, like a puppy at his heels, “And you can teach me how to be a farm hand. I’m a quick learner!” Derek scowled, marched up the front steps, and swung on his heel, bringing the other man to an abrupt halt.

“ _No.”_ Derek growled, and the young man knew right away the tone implied an immediate end to their conversation, “I don’t need any goddamn help.” And as a bitter afterthought added, “By the sound of it, you aren't good for anything anyway.” What little hope had been present in the boy’s expression melted away quickly. Derek felt a small pang of guilt at the sight of the dejected young man, but his pride and penchant for self-isolation demanded he steel himself against further emotion. The young man took a couple steps back off the porch steps and stared down at the ground, frustration and fear mixing across his features. Derek hesitated before hammering the nail in the coffin:

“Now get off my property.” and with that he turned and entered the house, the rickety screen door slamming shut behind him. The boy stood in the blistering summer silence, the only sound remaining being the incessant buzz of insects on the hot air. He stared at the front door, crestfallen and desperate, before slowly turning away.

Derek tried not to give the young man too much thought as he went about his evening ritual: drinking himself into a fog so thick there’s no room to think about anything at all. Once again, he didn’t stray from the back porch. Instead, he ended up slouched down in the chair by the back door, half-asleep with drink. Charlie laid beside him, as he always does, and gave his owner concerned glances, a low huff escaping him from time to time. “I know, boy.” Derek slurs in response, but nothing else can rouse him from his inebriated state. If Derek had bothered to go down into the yard, he might’ve noticed a small figure moving inconspicuously in the dark, keeping to the shadows so the light from the house wouldn’t expose them.

The next morning, Derek was awake at dawn, even though he had a splintering headache. His bones ached from the cold and the awkward position he had slept in on the chair out back. He rubbed the nape of his neck as he gulped down water in the kitchen, his mouth feeling parched and filled with the bitter aftertaste of alcohol. As he was looking out of the kitchen window, eyes watery and squinted against the painful daylight creeping up outside, he noticed something strange by the maple tree.

The stranger laying curled up under Derek Hale’s tree was rudely awakened by the sharp sound of a shotgun being cocked, and, as Derek peered angrily down the barrel of his gun, he recognized a familiar face peek carefully out from below a tattered blanket. It was the stubborn boy from yesterday, his hair disheveled and circles under his eyes from a hard night’s sleep.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Derek grunted, his voice gravelly and dark. The boy straightened up quickly and showed his hands in the hopes of disarming the feral-looking man standing above him.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hale. I really need a job. I can’t go back. I just--”

“Not this again.” Derek lowered the gun in exasperation. With a frustrated click of his tongue, he dragged his hand over his tired face. The boy quickly rose to his feet, words tumbling from his mouth more rapidly now,

“I don’t have any money to get back. To get _anywhere_. I’ll do whatever I need to to make just a little bit of money. I’ve got no--” Derek turned towards the kid once again with a low groan,

“Would you kindly shut your damn mouth.” He snapped, and the young man’s open mouth immediately swung shut, “I’ve got an awful headache, and if I have to listen to one more word come out of your mouth, it won’t end well for you.” He brandished the gun so the boy would get his meaning. The two stood in silence for a long moment. Derek stared off towards the rising sun, watching the early morning rays of light make the moisture glint over the grass. He felt sparks of pain shoot behind his eyes and gritted his teeth. _What the hell am I supposed to do?_ He thought angrily. He felt more annoyed than anything else, but underneath that was something more. He hated to admit it, but he felt responsible for the boy somehow. He desperately wanted to turn him away, and this time make sure he would be gone for good, but something stopped him. He sighed heavily and turned back to the wide-eyed stranger.

“You’ve never been a farm hand?” He quipped. The boy looked painfully apologetic.

“No.”

“And you’ve never done any housework, I suspect.” It wasn’t a question this time. Again, the boy looked shamefaced.

“...No.” He confirmed quietly. Derek let out a frustrated sigh,

“Well, do you think you can at least manage to brew a cup of coffee?” He grunted and began to walk back towards the house. He didn’t get far before he realized he wasn’t being followed. He turned half around and gave the boy a pointed look,

“Well?” He snapped “Don’t just stand there, before I change my mind.” And, with that, the young man gathered up his meager belongings and ran to catch up with Derek as quickly as he could.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The young man gets some insight into the kind of man Derek Hale might be as he's shown around the home and property. Guilt ultimately eats away at the the newcomer until his true identity is finally reveled. Despite Derek's general disdain towards other people and his suspicion of strangers, he manages to get a decent night's sleep for the first time in a very long time.

Once inside the house, the young man peered around discreetly, careful not to garner the fiery disapproval of his new host. What he saw was a home in shambles: there were dishes in the sink, papers and tools strewn over the counters and a small dining table hidden under a jumble of miscellaneous things. Dust sat in a thick layer over everything not used regularly, and it smelled stale as if a window hadn’t been cracked in decades. A can of beans sat open on a shelf, a spoon left inside. He wondered how long it must’ve been there. The rest of the house was in a similar state of disarray. Beyond the kitchen, there was a careful negligence that permeated the remainder of the small home. It appeared that Derek was a creature of habit, and only used parts of the house that served just a few purposes. The rest was enveloped in a sort of timeless snapshot: the young man noticed certain aspects of the home had a woman’s touch or hints that perhaps a child had once lived and played here. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was a distinct type of despair here that seeped into every room. He glanced at Derek, who was pensive and tense, and wondered what kind of demons preyed upon the man here.

Derek led the young man down a short hallway and to a room on the left. Inside was a trundle bed, the coverlet neatly made but untouched for years. It would surely need a good shaking out before anyone could sleep under it. The room had clearly belonged to a child at one point in time, but now it sat crammed with odds and ends, mostly boxes and gadgets the boy could only assume were used to keep a farm running. He figured very little of that was in use now, seeing as how neglected everything seemed to be. However, he was still grateful for a place to stay and for potential work.

“....Thank you, Mr. Hale.” The words were quiet as they slipped out, as if the boy was afraid breaking the silence would cause Derek to change his mind entirely about hiring him on. Derek cleared his throat uneasily and half-heartedly moved some boxes around,

“We’ll clear some of these things out to make room.” Is all he said, his voice still curt even as he tried to make an effort to create some semblance of comfort for his new housemate. As he loaded his arms full of a few things, he saw a conflicted look flit across the boy’s face. There was just a moment more of indecision before his expression became resolute,

“Mr. Hale, I lied to you before. Yesterday.” The boy was hesitant as he continued carefully, “My name’s not James.” He admitted, and it took everything in Derek’s power not to tell the boy he already knew that. It had been obvious. Wringing his hands, the young man shifted nervously, “My name’s Stiles, sir. Stiles Stilinski.” And, with that, Derek could tell the young man felt a wave of relief. He marvelled for a brief moment at how easy it was to read this kid. In response, Derek gave a grunt and pointed his boot at a couple more boxes,

“Well, alright, Stiles. Grab some more of those boxes and let’s go.” Stiles did as he was told, without missing a beat, and Derek led the way outside,

“And call me Derek!” He shouted back, his voice tinged with annoyance, “ _Mr. Hale_ is my damn father.” He added under his breath. Stiles followed Derek back out into the scorching sun, and they made their way to the dilapidated barn that sat, forgotten and run-down, back by the far pasture. They worked like this for a couple hours, silently, moving boxes and machinery out of the spare bedroom and through the dusty little house. Derek was surprised by the boy’s stamina and strength as they wrestled a rusted harrow to a different part of the barn; there was lean muscle on the young man, and a determination Derek chalked up to the boy’s incessant stubbornness.

Once the spare room was whipped into some kind of shape, the two men took a short break on the back porch. Derek stood with his hands on his hips, sweat glistening on his forehead. He swiped at it with the back of his arm and turned to see Charlie meandering their way at a slow, lazy pace. At the sight of the dog, Stiles' face lit up like Derek hadn’t seen it before.

“You have a dog.” The young man blurted happily and made his way down the creaking porch steps to meet the old mutt halfway.

“That’s Charlie.” Derek supplied, watching the two carefully. He believed you could always judge a man’s character by how he treated animals. Stiles approached Charlie with a hand outstretched; Charlie sniffed briefly and his tongue came lolling out of his salt-and-peppered muzzle. The smile on Stiles face as he began to pet Charlie was infectious. The dog seemed to be momentarily incredulous as he began to receive scratches behind the ears and eager pets; no one had paid attention to him like this in a long time. Derek frowned as Charlie nuzzled into Stiles’ affectionate hands. _Traitor,_ Derek thought bitterly.

The evening came and went in mostly silence. Derek could tell Stiles wasn’t used to silence, seeing as how the young man liked to talk a lot. Derek grunted in response to most of what Stiles said, but the kid never seemed to be fazed much by his lack of communication. Derek had served up a meager dinner of barely warmed beans and some bread and cheese; Stiles thought to himself that this was probably much nicer than what Derek fed himself on a regular basis, and that wasn’t saying much. The evening stretched into night, and Derek eventually fished out two cups and a bottle of whiskey. Stiles watched as Derek poured a splash into one of the mugs and then turned to him to ask,

“How old are you anyway?” Stiles gave a tired smile, as if he’d had that question posed to him all his life.

“Twenty-three.” He replied, and Derek responded with one of his patented grunts. _Older than he looks, then._ Derek thought as he poured more whiskey into the cup and handed it to Stiles. He turned back to the other mug and nearly filled it up. He stared down at it for a rueful moment, as if putting his whiskey in a cup would make the fact he’s a raging alcoholic better. He gritted his teeth and then forcibly pushed the self-loathing away. He joined Stiles at the table again and ran his fingers through his messy, dark beard. Stiles took a swig of the whiskey and met the other man’s gaze as the liquid burned down his throat. Derek was hard to read, but Stiles could sense some kind of curiosity in him, as if he was a man hungry for human connection, even though he hated the notion of it. He wondered how long Derek had been alone like this, with just poor Charlie for company.

“So,” Derek cleared his throat and leaned back in the kitchen chair, “I’m up early most days. I spend most of my time outside, tending to the cattle. Fixing things that need to be repaired.” Stiles wondered what exactly he could be fixing considering the current state of things around here, but he keeps his mouth shut.

“What should I do then?” He said hesitantly and set his cup on the small patch of cleared space they had made on the kitchen table. “We’ll get to that tomorrow.” Derek had grunted earlier that evening as Stiles tried to maneuver their dinner onto the overloaded table. It was clear Derek hadn’t had company in a very long time. Derek seemed to be stumped by Stiles’ current question. He thought about it for a moment before shrugging. His piercing hazel green eyes caught Stiles’ again, indecipherable and guarded.

“I don’t rightly know.” He admitted, and it sounded honest enough, devoid of any malice. “Just make yourself useful.” Is all he added. And that was that.

At some point in the night, Stiles excused himself for bed and was sure to shake out the covers before crawling onto the mattress gratefully. It had been a while since he last slept in an actual bed. He fell asleep almost instantly, even though he had an agreement with himself about strangers. He always told himself to keep a watchful eye out, not to be too trusting even though it was against his nature not to be, but something about Derek put Stiles at ease. Even though the man was a bristling, ticking time-bomb, Stiles knew he had nothing to fear from him. He had no actual reason to believe this, but he felt it in his gut somehow. Despite everything, Derek Hale was a good man.

After Stiles retired to bed, Derek picked up his usual post right outside the back door. This time he had the whiskey bottle in tow, but tonight was different. He felt less inclined to drink, less inclined to drown his sorrows in a numbing fog. Maybe because, instead of sorrow, a strange new feeling was eating him up. It was curiosity. He was keenly aware of another human being occupying his living space, and it had his interest piqued. Who was this man? Where had he come from? Why the _hell_ had he allowed this stranger into his home? These questions ran circles in his mind until finally he figured he had better get a decent night’s sleep. For the first time in many months, Derek went inside, set the whiskey bottle on the table, and headed to his own bed. He hesitated in the hallway, across from the closed door of the spare bedroom, and then headed into his own room. Despite the marvel of having another person sleeping just across the hallway, Derek fell into one of the most restful slumbers he had experienced in a long time.


End file.
